


Winter in Kirkwall Blues

by servantofclio



Series: Aderyn Hawke [2]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games)
Genre: F/M, Pre-Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-30
Updated: 2015-12-30
Packaged: 2018-05-10 10:39:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,277
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5582497
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/servantofclio/pseuds/servantofclio
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A long, wet winter is trying Hawke's patience. Set in Act 1.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Winter in Kirkwall Blues

Winter in Kirkwall had lasted approximately forever, but in that time, it had only snowed twice. The rest of the time, it had just been cold. It wasn’t often cold enough to snow, but it rained constantly, the damp and chill leaching through even the warmest of wools. Kirkwall’s cobbled streets were constantly wet and slippery, slick with ice in the mornings and evenings. The few occasions when Hawke managed to get outside the city, doing a few jobs out on the coast, were even worse: the sea winds cut through her cloak like a knife, the salt stinging her chapped lips, and all the ground was marshy and sodden. 

All in all, Hawke had finally given in to her companions’ complaints and agreed to stay in for the rest of the season. Varric said the expedition wouldn’t leave before spring anyway, and he and Isabela were both increasingly difficult to pry out of the Hanged Man, which, Isabela pointed out frequently, was at least _warm_. 

And yet. Gamlen’s house was too small and cramped. The cold seeped through the cracked walls, and the roof leaked. If Hawke spent too much time there, rubbing elbows with him and her mother and Carver (Maker bless him, Carver seemed to take up more than half of any room he was in, all elbows and growling about the chill, even though he’d been supposed to patch the leaky roof and the damned thing still leaked), she might go insane. Mother and Uncle Gamlen had been spending the winter sniping at each other about old slights and arguments Hawke couldn’t make heads or tails of, and she hated it. 

She’d been helping Anders in the clinic, but she’d had about as much of the stench of Darktown as she could take, too. Merrill had come down with something that had her sneezing and coughing and didn’t want visitors. Aveline was on night patrols these days, which meant she slept half the day and was poor company the rest of it. 

So Hawke found her steps turning toward Hightown. 

She hesitated on the doorstep of Fenris’s mansion. (Or, at least, the mansion Fenris was occupying.) She reached for the massive brass knocker with its serpent’s head, and stopped herself before she touched it. There was little purpose in disturbing Fenris, really. Hawke had no real reason to be here, no work to offer, only an ill-formed, restless desire for companionship. It was foolish to come here. Of all her acquaintances, Fenris was surely the one least interested in offering any. 

She stood there with her hand upraised, limp dark hair sticking to her face in the rain, debating with herself. Perhaps she should just go down to the Hanged Man herself, though her mood rebelled against the thought of raucous noise and the smell of cheap ale and unwashed bodies. 

The door opened while she stood, caught in uncertainty. Hawke stared rather stupidly at Fenris, who appeared almost equally surprised to see her. 

“Hawke,” he said. “Did you require my aid?” 

Hawke wished very much that the sound of Fenris’s voice did not give her such pleasant shivers down her spine. At least now she could blame her current shivers on the rain. “No,” she said hastily. “I was just... paying a call.” It sounded weak, even though she _had_ visited him at home before. 

A dark eyebrow quirked under the shaggy white fringe of Fenris’s hair. 

“But if you were going out, I can go,” Hawke added, taking half a step away from the door. 

The rain chose that moment to become a drenching downpour. Hawke cringed under the sudden deluge. 

Fenris glanced at the sky and said, “On second thought, my errand will keep. Why don’t you come in, Hawke?” 

He stepped back, and Hawke slipped in, grateful. The mansion was dry, at least, though she thought she could hear a distant dripping. She’d grown unfortunately familiar with the sound of a leaking roof. 

“It’s warmer by the fire,” Fenris said, setting off up the stairs without waiting for her. 

Hawke followed, wringing out her wet hair as best she could. As she watched Fenris go up the sweeping staircase, she noticed that he was visibly relaxed, no longer hunching his shoulders or scanning from side to side as if enemies might appear out of any shadow. He moved with ease now in this space that he had made his own. Hawke thought of Gamlen’s dark, crowded house, and felt a flash of envy. Most days it seemed as though she had no more than the width of her sleeping pallet to call her own. 

She shook it away. She had her mother and her brother, and her friends, and she had always been free, even if she had to hide her magic. Fenris had little enough; envying him felt unkind, almost cruel. Besides, right now she could only be grateful for the hospitality. 

It was indeed warm, upstairs in the room when Fenris made his quarters. A comfortable fire crackled in the fireplace, where Fenris now waited in one of the chairs. Hawke dropped into the other one, feeling rather as though her wet clothes and hair were steaming in the warmth. 

There was a stiff silence once she sat down. Hawke fidgeted, lacing her fingers together, then combing them through her damp hair. Her eyes were drawn to the flickering flames, as she didn’t want to stare at Fenris himself. She tried desperately to think of something to say, some words for the restless urge that had driven her out of that crowded house in the rain. 

“What brings you here, Hawke?” Fenris said at last. Haltingly, as if he were no more comfortable than she, and Hawke felt a blush rising in her cheeks at once. She was the one intruding in his space, after all. Perhaps he felt some obligation, and would prefer that she were not here. 

She shook her head, and felt a long sigh leave her lips before she meant it. “It’s just so _wet_ , I can’t stand it.” 

“Ah,” he said. 

Once started, Hawke found the words tumbling off her tongue. “And Mother and Uncle Gamlen keep on _arguing_. I don’t care which great-uncle gave which of them a nicer present on Satinalia in which year, and they won’t stop quarreling, and Carver, Carver _snores_ , and says I’m making it up, and he won’t stop picking fights with Gamlen either, and then Gamlen twits both of us about not bringing in any coin for the last month—” 

Fenris reached down to the side of his chair and held out to her a goblet, and a bottle of wine. Hawke decided not to inquire as to the cleanliness of the goblet, and took it, holding it out while Fenris poured. 

The wine was rich and complex and fruity on the tongue. It spread through her like honey, sweet and warming her from the inside, while the fire warmed her without. “And everyone complains if I drag them out into the rain,” she said eventually, more calmly. “And the Hanged Man is too loud.” 

Fenris chuckled. Hawke’s eyes darted up to find him watching her with the corner of his mouth turned up. “Well,” he said. “You are welcome enough here.” He waved a hand, a little stiffly, as if unused to playing the host. Which must, of course, be the case. 

Hawke smiled back at him, brushing the hair out of her eyes. “Thank you,” she said quietly, letting her spine and shoulders soften. She sighed and curled into the old chair, with the fire at her face and wine in her belly.


End file.
